Whodunit?
by ftr
Summary: Like Clue for retards: Eric Cartman plays host to his very own murder mystery soiree – including romance, Cognac, leather clad Butters, and maybe even a murder. But who is the greedy Jew rat responsible...?
1. i: A Dark and Stormy Night

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Author's Notes: **This is my first SP fanfic, so I'd really appreciate any reviews, encouragement, criticism, etc. :) The kids are about ten years old, and there will be romance in the future…hope the lack of slash doesn't deter any one from reading it. :s

**CHAPTER ONE: A Dark and Stormy Night**

The life of Kyle Broflovski has always been, by and large, short of the element of _mystery_.

This may seem hard to believe, considering some of the events his town has witnessed – utter destruction by a nasal, middle-aged robotic singer/actress hell-bent on world domination, to name but one – but in a world where Jesus is not only a favoured talk show host but also the guy who steals all the best parking spaces, and one's best friend reports scenes of Hawaii-themed excesses from the bowels of Hell on a weekly basis, life presents very little enigma.

However, as the snow settled across the lawn on the evening of the third of November, all normality of life was suddenly dispelled, and he was plunged into a world of misery, murder and mystery that would shake him to the very core, sort of.

It was a dark and stormy night…

'Hello?'

The phone line was silent, other than a coarse, irregular breathing. The kind of breathing one may well describe as _mysterious_. Which was, in fact, the effect the breather was aiming for.

'Hello?' Kyle demanded again, slightly louder. His brows furrowed in agitation.

'Kaaaahl Broflovski,' the voice whispered, mysteriously.

'I know it's you, fatass. I've got caller ID.'

Slight pause.

'Uh – Kahl – uh – _Kahl Broflovski_,' the voice repeated, now sounding vaguely annoyed (but increasingly mysterious).

'What the hell do you want?' Kyle demanded, glowering at the receiver.

Evidently unnerved by his sort-of friend's ability to see through his carefully plotted rouse, the mysterious voice said, 'Ah invite you to my house to witness—'

'Nuh-uh.'

'—GODDAMMIT! _Ah invite you to my house _to witness for yourself a most horrific crime of—'

'I'm hanging up now.'

'—_crime of terrible passion _you goddamn Jew!'

Intrigued despite himself, Kyle cautiously said, 'A crime at your house?' As he spoke, he craned his neck to ensure his parents were still alive and well, and not part of a tasty chilli filling.

'_Yes_, Kahl. A violent crime within my own propertah. Are you intrigued? Does the mystery grip your very soul? Is the curiosity burrowing into your tiny Jew brain, Kahl?'

'Fuck you, fatass!'

'Ay, fuck you!'

Kyle hung up. Over at the Cartman residence, clad spectacularly in a red velvet dressing gown and a monocle, Eric glared at the phone with seething hatred, as if willing every Jew tooth in Broflovski's mouth to rot and perish. Goddamn Jew asshole, ruining his murder-mystery soiree…

The idea had sprung from two very separate incidents: the first was the mystery-themed party his mother had held at their house the previous week, which included Cognac, cigars and people pretending to die and other people pretending to figure out who was responsible, and inevitably ended with an orgy of red hot drunken lovin'. This was the _Cartman_ residence, after all.

The other incident was a live news report about the execution of a man named Sticky Fist as penalty for murder. Hearing about all the defrosting torsos found in his refrigerator, Cartman had squealed excitedly and shouted "kickass!" before hastily planning a series of _completely theoretical _methods of Jewish assassination.

And now, he had him gripped! He held him in his beefy, ingenious fingers!

Like a Jew lamb to the kosher slaughter!

And he would reveal the whiny bitch for the cold-hearted Jew rat he really was!

_And _he'd get to kill somebody!

Striking a particularly mysterious pose, he mysteriously dialled the next number on his mysterious list.

_Kickass._

-------------------------------------

Returning briefly to the Broflovski residence, Kyle shot something on the X-Box and, hearing his phone ring again, reluctantly paused his game.

'Hello?' he said, wearily.

'Hey dude.'

'Hey, Stan.'

'Did Cartman just phone you?'

'Yes,' Kyle growled, with unintended violence, 'he started breathing down the phone and mysteriously whispering my name.'

'Huh,' said Stan, thoughtfully, 'he _did _sound unusually mysterious, didn't he? And…_British_.' It was true; he had sounded abnormally like an English country squire, circa 1922. 'So, you going to his party?'

'Well, he mentioned a horrific crime and a "goddamn Jew", so I'm thinking _no_.'

'Oh,' said Stan, uncomfortably, 'are – are you sure? Because I kinda told him you'd go.'

'_What?_' he whined, squeezing the receiver with further unintended violence. 'What the hell d'you tell him that for?'

'He said he'd make me eat my parents!'

'Oh, goddammit.'

'And then he put Artemis Clyde frog on the line,' he continued, sounding increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation progressed, 'and he said he'd cut off my pretty little face.'

Pause.

'What?!'

'I'm – I'm just saying! Any guy who makes his stuffed toys threaten his friends is maybe not the kind of person we should be rejecting right now! Uh.'

Kyle shook his head despairingly. 'Dammit, Stan. Artemis Clyde frog just made you his bitch.'

Stan sounded a few muffled curses before demanding, 'Well, are you coming or not? It might not completely suck ass if we're both there.'

He sighed, but nodded. 'Ok. Fine. When do we have to be there?'

'Around six, but I'm setting off now.'

'Ok, I'll meet you there.'

'Cool. Oh – and Cartman says to bring Cognac and condoms.' Stan hung up.

Kyle stared at the phone, concentrated intently on lowering his surprised eyebrows, and hung up. He knew he was going to regret this.


	2. ii: Cartman Manor

**CHAPTER TWO: Cartman Manor**

When Stan arrived at Cartman's house that evening – or, as the hand-written plaque above the door now declared it, _Cartman Manor _– he found Kyle already waiting for him, hovering impatiently by the front door.

The apparent irritation in his features had been inflicted by several issues; not least the cold weather, the lack of X-Box and the violent death that inevitably lurked ahead. But upon seeing his friend he at least attempted a brief smile.

They shared the obligatory "hey dude", Stan noting, 'Man, it's really starting to snow, huh? We could end up getting trapped inside Casa Cartman.'

Kyle, who was familiar with the conventions of mystery novels, groaned. 'Aw, don't say _that!_'

'What? Why?'

'Because that _always _happens! It's called a locked-room mystery. They're gonna find my bruised and beaten body stripped naked in the snow, but nobody could get into the building because of the weather so it must be one of you guys and in an incredible—'

'Dude,' Stan interrupted, harshly, 'what the hell are you talking about?'

'Don't rape me, goddammit!'

'Uh…' It wasn't every day he heard such a commandment. 'Uh, ok. Are we going in?'

----------------------

Wendy Testaburger's first experience of Cartman Manor was, to say the least, unexpected.

It wasn't just the fact that Butters had answered the door wearing little more than a bowtie to usher her down into the basement, nor the fact that he was speaking with a rather passable English accent as he did.

Perhaps it was more to do with the sight of Eric Cartman in a velvet dressing gown, adjusting his monocle with a tobacco pipe pursed between his lips.

Then again, it could have been the way he said, 'Ah, Ms…Testaburger, is it? Yes, I'm glad you could make it. Coffee? Cognac? Condom? No? Very well; please take a seat, right hyah.'

After a silent minute or so, Wendy managed to close her gaping mouth to demand: 'Cartman, what the hell is going on?'

He waved her aside with an unusually delicate flip of his fat hand and said, ''Scuse meh, Wendy – _AY_! Butters! What the hell kind of accent do you call that, you British piece of shit?!'

'But I'm not British, Eric!' Butters protested, feebly. Wendy finally took the time to notice that, in addition to his bowtie, he was dressed in a pair of leather boxers and some sensible shoes.

Cartman shouted, 'You'll be as British as I tell you until Pip gets here, a'right?! Goddamn limey bastard! – sit down, Wendy.'

She briefly considered her options, glancing from her clearly unhinged host to his scantily-clad butler, eyed the staircase that lead to freedom and shuffled discreetly towards it.

'Ok,' she said calmly, maintaining eye contact all the while (operating on the logic that if it worked on a rhinoceros, it would work on Eric), 'um, I've actually got a lot of school work to be getting on with, so I'm gonna—'

Cartman chuckled. Always unnerving. 'Oh, no no no _no_, Wendy. You cannot leave the murder-mystery soiree once you have entered; those are the rules.'

'What rules?' she asked indignantly, abandoning the rhino idea. 'You never mentioned any _rules_, you just said—'

'Ay!' he cried, once again snapping out of the badly applied English accent, 'You're at _my _sophisticated murder-mystery soiree, and you'll follow _my _rules, ho! You've got to – to stay friendly and drink safe, and always wear protection!'

'Protection?'

'Yeah! Like little plastic socks, and stuff.' He'd taken the rules from those laid out by his mother at _her_ party the previous week. Butters' outfit was also of the same source. There were many other rules in force at the last party, but Cartman decided most of them didn't apply to his idea of a good time as penetration wasn't so heavily involved; besides which, he couldn't figure out how to pronounce "kinky".

'Dammit Cartman,' Wendy sighed, grudgingly taking a seat – one of several set out, apparently, for the purpose – 'I _knew_ this was a dumb idea. It's a school night.'

'Oh _dear_,' he said, slipping back into that implacable accent, 'well, heaven forbid our hippy smack-ho friend should fall below a grade A average, eh, butler?'

'Oh,' said Butters, uncertainly, 'why, that's me.'

Wendy glared. 'Somebody has to kick your ass with the grade curb, dick-ear.'

'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but you're being held against your will and I'm not.'

-------------------------

It was some time later than Stan and Kyle knocked against the front door of Cartman Manor, and some time after that that their knock was answered by a wheezing butler.

'Oh,' he said, cheerfully as ever despite his lack of clothing, 'hi, fellas!'

'_Butters_?!' Kyle said, incredulously. 'You're invited too?'

'Why, sure I am! Only, I'm meant – oh.' He cleared his throat, and resumed his utterance in a much more _English _sounding voice: 'Only, I've got to play the Limey old butler 'til Pip gets here, because Eric needs someone to serve all the – all the goddamn cocktails, y'see?'

By this point in the conversation, both Stan and Kyle had noticed Butters' apparel and lack thereof, and exchanged a brief glance before coming to the unspoken decision that this was something they should never speak of again.

Eventually Stan said, 'What's the fatass got planned this time, Butters?'

'Uh, I don't know,' he replied, nervously, 'but he said that if I don't behave like a good butler, then he's gonna cut my dick off and start calling me The Buttlord instead.' He gave a dutiful chuckle, and explained, 'Y'see, it sounds kinda like Butters if you just change the last part with—'

'We get it.'

'Oh. Uh, you comin' in then, fellas? Mr Cartman's already got some guests waiting downstairs.'

Stan said, 'He has?' at the same time Kyle said, '_Mr_ Cartman?', but Butters ignored them both.

Instead he said, 'Well, you guys had better come in, because it's snowy out and my titties are getting _awfully_ cold. Wouldya look at that…? And, uh, Mr Cartman says everything will be explained inside, you, uh, blasphemous gaywad Jewface.'

Kyle growled.

----------------------------------

'Well, if it isn't Stanley and Kahl! C'min, you guys! Take a seat!'

Kyle and Stan, stood side by side for the sake of self-preservation, looked around the room suspiciously.

'AY! FAGS! TAKE A SEAT!'

_This _time they obeyed, joining the group of kids who, in various states of discomfort, perched at the very edge of their respective chairs in the centre of the room, herded together like sheep.

(_Kosher_ sheep, thought Cartman – mysteriously.)

'Hey, Token,' said Stan, slipping into the seat next to him.

'Hey Stan.'

'You here for the party?'

'Yeah,' he said, mildly annoyed, 'apparently he really needed a black guy to use as a scapegoat.'

'Oh.'

He shrugged. 'Whatever, man. At least he hasn't made me his dogsbody.'

As he said so, Butters breathlessly ran down the basement stairs, dragging a snow-capped Pip along with him, to exclaim, 'Look, Eric! The British kid's here! Can I have my pants back now?'

'No time,' Cartman replied shortly, 'I'm afraid you'll have to play the butler for the rest of the evening, Butters.'

'Aw, poop!'

'Oh,' said Pip, confused but ecstatic, 'does that mean I don't have to be the dogsbody this time? Oh, goodie! What funny-wunny! How—'

'A'right a'right, I've changed my mind. From now on, you're _both _butlers. Now put these leather pants on, you limey little bitch.'

'Oh, dear…'

Stan, trying desperately to block the scene unfolding between his fatass host and his makeshift butlers, turned to observe the other guests present. In the corner, glowering at Cartman's dressing gown with her arms folded, Wendy Testaburger sat with Bebe Stevens. Bebe, apparently the only person making use of the complimentary gifts, took a sip of Cognac and sculptured a "Ribbed For Her Pleasure" balloon animal.

Token, still in a state of mild annoyance, attempted to converse with Tweek, who said "_oh god_" a lot a surreptitiously sipped coffee out of a thermos. Taking a seat opposite them, a now leather-clad Pip sat down with the identically dressed Butters, who offered the Brit advice on how to keep his bare nipples "nice and toasty warm" in face of the cold weather. Stan quickly looked away again.

And, stood before them all looking exactly like a fat, ten-year-old Hugh Hefner, Eric Cartman dipped his monocle in Cognac and, against all logic, ate it. He was seated in a high armchair, coordinated to match his gown, watching the assembled group with a superior (and mysterious!) look upon his face.

From beside Stan, Kyle raised his voice to demand, 'What's taking so long, fatass? This party completely sucks ass.' He was met with a chorus of "yeah!"

Cartman sighed, the look of superiority vanishing to be replaced with casual annoyance, and said, 'For the love of the slaughtered Christ child, Kahl, shut your hippy Jew mouth before I bust a cap in your ass. We're still waiting on one person – and here he is!'

Kenny McCormick appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Voice muffled by his parka, he greeted the room with a cheerful, 'Hey dudes.'

Cartman immediately removed a revolver from his pocket and shot him in the face.

'_Ugh!_'

In the stunned silence that followed, punctuated only by the crumpling of Kenny's body, Cartman excitedly informed the room at large: 'Ok – now you have to guess who did it. C'mon, you guys!'


	3. iii: Bear Mace

**CHAPTER TH****REE: Bear Mace**

Shattering the stunned pause, Stan exclaimed, 'Dude – Cartman! You killed Kenny!'

'You bastard!'

'That is _not_ cool. Killing Kenny is _not_ cool!'

'Ah, why the fudge not?' Cartman asked, casually taking a bite of another monocle. 'He's just gonna come back again.'

'That's not the point!' By now, the group had swarmed around Kenny's bloody form and sat tending, fanning or, in the case of Bebe, pickpocketting his corpse. 'You're not actuallymeant to _kill_ anybody, ass-hat!'

Cartman scoffed and resumed his seat. 'Yes I _am_, dumbass. Why else would they call it a murder-mystery party?'

'Aw,' said Butters, lost somewhere in the throng of people guarding Kenny, 'now I got blood on my nipple tassels…'

'You're just meant to _pretend_,' Stan explained, ignoring the blonde for reasons of taste, 'and then we all _pretend _to figure out who _pretended _to kill the person who _pretended _to die! Did you never wonder why these parties have such low mortality rates?!'

'Look, Stan,' Cartman explained wearily, temporarily abandoning his accent, 'I invited you all here for a reason, ok? But if you guys don't want a sophisticated and high-class soiree with liquor and Pregnancy Blockers, then I can't help that! But riddle me this, Stan: how else am I meant to incriminate Kahl in a cold-blooded murder, huh? Tell me!'

'Aw, dude,' Stan muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, 'that is _not_ cool…'

Kyle glared between the two of them, eyes narrowed. 'Oh, for God's sake! Y'know what, Cartman? I'm sick of being the butt of all your evil little schemes! I'm sick of people trying to pin the blame on the nearest minority just because we provide an easy scapegoat – am I right, bro?!' He turned to Token with one hand raised in anticipation of a high-five.

Token viewed him with an expression of great distaste and said, 'Dude, don't say that.'

Wendy offered her two cents worth by screaming, 'This is stupid!'

'You're right!' Cartman agreed, retrieving his gun once more and waving it dangerously above his head, 'And you've got twenty minutes to figure out who did it before the orgy begins!'

Wendy promptly knocked the gun out of his hands, prompting cries of "AY you goddamn ho!" and the like.

'I can't believe you killed Kenny,' Kyle muttered angrily, as the blood reached his shoes.

'Yeah? Well _you_ killed Christ!'

'Cartman—'

'Christ killer!'

'Everybody shut up!' Stan demanded, assuming his natural position of authority. The room obediently fell silent, save for the squeaking of Kenny's rat groupies and an occasional "ngh!" from Tweek. Once his thoughts had cleared, he continued: 'Ok, obviously somewhere between the weak British accents and the…_weird_ leather outfits, things have taken a slightly odd turn.'

'Ya _think_?' Wendy mumbled, with a roll of her eyes.

'What we need to do,' he continued, speaking over her, 'is just forget this ever happened.' He glanced at Pip and Butters, in their matching leather short-shorts, and said, '_Really _forget. If that's still possible.' There was a general mutter of agreement, and a mass movement towards the basement stairs; unfortunately, Cartman's impressive girth blocked their way.

'Oh, c'mon you guys,' he whined, batting Tweek away aggressively, 'we can still have a fun game! C'mon, let's pretend Bebe's dead.' Bebe made an indignant noise, but he continued, 'C'm_on_, you guys – let's play prostitute murder! Uh, I blame Token!'

'Hey!' said Token.

'Rules of the game, Token: always pick the black guy.'

'_Hey!_'

The discussion was interrupted by a quiet click which, silent as it was, still managed to subdue a room of Cognac-sipping ten year olds. There was a general shift of attention, until all terrified eyes were on Kyle Broflovski.

'Alright,' he said levelly, pointing the discarded revolver between Cartman's eyes, 'I hoped it wouldn't come to this, Eric.'

There followed a general intake of breath, as everyone (save for Tweek, who yelped and collapsed) focused their energies on moving from the potential line of fire. The only person unaffected was Cartman himself, who demanded, 'Oh – so first you kill our Lord and Saviour, _now _you shoot your party host? I nominate Kyle as prostitute killer!'

'I'll shoot you in the goddamn eye!' Kyle cried, warningly.

Butters tentatively said, 'Come on now Kyle, that'll _blind_ him!'

'Kyle, I think you should put the gun down.' In the style of a Mexican stand-off, Wendy had produced a spray can from her bag and pointed it at Kyle's face.

He regarded her with a strange look, and said, 'Or what, you'll absorb me to death?'

'It's _mace_, dumbass. The kind they use on bears.'

Which presented the slightly more pressing question:

'Why the hell have you got mace in your purse?'

'That's irrelevant.'

'No it isn't,' said Stan, joining in the debate and temporarily forgetting about the fact that his best friend was pointing a gun at someone's face.

'Yeah,' said Cartman, also loosing interest, 'why have you got mace?'

'Uh,' she mumbled, all gusto momentarily abandoned, 'um…no reason.'

Bebe giggled and explained, 'Ronald McDonald freaks her out.'

'_Shut up!_'

'Really?' said Kyle, lowering the gun. 'Why?'

'No reason!' Wendy shrieked.

Bebe said, 'She had a sex dream about him – _ARGH!_ She maced me!'

'I said shut your damn mouth!'

'Ow…it _burns_!'

The silence returned, perforated only by Bebe's squeals and desperate attempts to scratch the flesh from her hand. All animosity temporarily forgotten, the males of the room exchanged a glance universally recognised as, "PMS?" before remembering exactly what had happened.

Kyle pointed the gun; Wendy pointed the mace. Butters pointed his bowtie, because he didn't want to be left out.

Then Cartman shrugged and said, 'Whatever, there was only one bullet in there anyway.'

Kyle pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. And again.

'Oh,' he said, glumly, 'goddammit. What kind of gun only has one bullet, fatass?'

'Hey, don't blame me! Artemis Clyde frog's a Russian Roulette junkie.' He pointed to the abandoned chairs as he spoke; for the first time, Kyle noticed the presence of the stuffed lizard sat primly on the edge of an armchair. He was wearing a monocle.

'Oh, Christ,' Stan muttered, as all weapons were lowered and Bebe rolled silently around the floor, 'this is just great. I should've known this was a stupid idea.'

'I _told_ you,' Kyle pointed out, smugly.

'Yeah?' said Cartman, still blocking their exit. 'But you still came, right?'

'Only because we don't want to eat our parents!' Token shouted, verbalising the unspoken thoughts of the masses. 'We all hate you!'

There was a brief, guilty pause. Then Cartman scoffed. 'No you _don't_, you guys.'

'Yes,' said Token, folding his arms, 'we do.'

He pointed to Wendy and said, 'The hippy doesn't; she was gonna mace the Jew to defend mah honour.'

Wendy glanced at the mace in her hands and pulled a face, as if she'd just realised the ghastly truth of the situation.

Stan sighed. His fingers would one day find a permanent home on the bridge of his nose. 'Look, it's getting late and it's a school night. I think we should all just go home.'

Cartman, confronted by what could now only be described as a _mob_, briefly considered his options. Eventually defeated by the murderous look in Kyle's eyes, he said, 'That's _fahn_. Screw you guys; you can go home. But I shall have my vengeance! I'll make you eat your—'

'Yeah. We know.'

With a final withering glare, he folded his arms and stepped aside. After a cautious moment of hesitation, the assembled kids made their way up the stairs and away to sweet freedom, with the exception of Wendy, who dutifully dragged the still-writhing Bebe by the wrist, and Butters, who still wanted his pants back.

As Wendy reached the door, however, she found herself face-to-back with a disgruntled crowd, rabbling around the front door. 'What's going on?' she demanded, dropping Bebe to the ground.

Kyle replied by screaming madly and hurling himself bodily against the door. Tweek exclaimed, 'We're snowed in! _Ngh_! We're all gonna _die_!'

'What?!' she screeched, barging her way through the throng. 'I can't stay here! Everything smells of pie!' She threw herself, shoulder-first, against the door, wailing with an unfamiliar desperation. The males around her, remembering the Incident of the Bear Mace, took a collective step back. '_No! God, no!_'

'I knew this would happen,' said Kyle, with all the emotion of a man on the edge, 'I _told_ _you_ this would happen, Stan! We're gonna be stuck all night with the megalomaniac!'

'Calm down!' said Stan; not particularly easy when surrounded by a hysterical woman, a homicidal best friend, two guys in leather shorts, a man on a caffeine high with an underpants fixation and a recent victim of bear mace. It was under these circumstances, and these circumstances only, that the company of a near-schizophrenic fatass crime lord seemed suddenly preferable.

Speaking of which…

'Ah-ha, gentlemen; hos.' Once again, he'd reverted to the mock-English accent. Taking a bite of another monocle, he pushed open the basement door enticingly. 'It seems you _will_ be playing murders with me, after all.'


	4. iv: Mingle

**A/N: **Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed, added and/or subscribed. Please continue to review, add and/or subscribe. Sorry about the huge delay…RL nonsense, you know how it is…won't happen again, promise!

Warning: Contains foul language. And I've always wanted to use "cajoled" in a sentence.

**CHAPTER FOUR: ****Mingle**

'O-_k_ o-_k_!' the mini-Hefner grinned, clapping his hands together gleefully. 'It's great to see such a good turn-out, you guys; real nice to see so many of you devoted to the sweet, sweet cause.'

'This is humiliating,' Kyle informed him, somehow biting back his anger.

Cartman sighed at the mood-killer. 'I've warned you once, Jewface. So help me God…'

Kyle grumbled bitterly to himself, but fell silent. When Token complained, he was bound and gagged with what Cartman lovingly referred to as "the Blanket". It was baby blue, dotted with the grinning faces of Wellington Bear. Nothing else said "sadistic evil genius" in quite the same way.

'Ok,' Cartman continued, barely containing his glee, 'I've gathered you guys here today for a very important reason – for a _murder _is about to take place!' He was met by a sea of unimpressed faces. 'Oh yes. And you have 'til sunrise tomorrow to figure out the killah, or you've got to stay here forever! Oh yes! How d'you like that, Kahl?!'

'Dude, you can't keep us here against our will,' Stan insisted, but without much conviction. He'd already managed to lure them into the basement and force them into a prescribed seat.

'Oh, can't I?'

'No! I mean, our – our parents'll come get us,' he mumbled, with even less conviction.

Cartman's glee increased, his piggy eyes twinkling like vicious sequins from a sadistic arts and crafts basket. '_Really_, Stan? Your dad's hit the bottle so many times it's developed a flagellation fetish.'

'Dude!'

'Oh yes, Stanley!' He leaned over to Wendy and added, 'I got that one off the Internet.'

Wendy looked at him as if he'd just called her a cunt and pissed on her grandma.

'Hm. Suit yourself.' He once again addressed the assembled victims, and continued, 'You have 'til sunrise, gentlemen. And then Artemis Clyde's gonna get nasty.'

Kyle briefly surveyed the frog with a concerned look, and was disgusted by it.

'Right!' said Cartman, again clapping his hands together. 'Any questions? Yes, Pip?'

'Am I actually going to get my trousers back at any point this evening?'

'That depends – are you still a limey little wuss? That's what I thought. Any more questions?'

There was a loud groan of, 'Hospital, dammit!' from Bebe, which was universally ignored. After an expectant pause, Wendy reluctantly raised her hand.

'Yes, hippy?'

'We already know who killed Kenny, fatass. We saw you do it.'

'Uh – Kenny was just a taster,' he said, improvising desperately. 'The _real_ treat comes later. It could be any one of us!'

'Well, except you,' Wendy pointed out, increasingly unimpressed. 'Since you've got to be the killer.'

'Nuh-_uh_,' he insisted, 'Kahl's got to be the killer.'

'_Cartman_!' Kyle objected.

'That's the heathen lore, Kahl! I can't help that!'

'You are such a godamn fatass, Cartman.'

'AY! Defend me, hippy!'

'_Me_?' said Wendy.

'Uh, do I see any _other_ skinny white-trash hippies in here?! Mace the heathen!'

'Fuck you Eric!'

'Go stick your dick in a panda's blowhole!'

'PANDAS DON'T HAVE BLOWHOLES!' she screamed. As an afterthought, she added, 'AND I DO NOT HAVE A DICK!'

'Panda, dolphin – whatevah! I do what I _want_! Now…' he pointed around the room wildly, hands shaking and face contorted to fight back his unholy rage. '_Mingle_, dammit! All of you!' A few concerned looks were exchanged. 'MINGLE! Have cognac and foreplay! _It's my godamn party and I will have mingling!_'

Stan and Kyle exchanged looks. Cartman was as red as his dressing gown, and looked as if he would either combust or cry.

Stan said, 'Dude, are you going to have a heart attack?'

For a moment, all was silent. Then a very quiet, very high-pitched whine started up, growing increasingly louder and whinier as it progressed. It was emitting from Cartman, and it sounded like "_Mhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiingeeeehl_..." With a resigned sigh, Stan turned from his host and did as he was asked.

Lowering his voice, he addressed the boys nearest him – Kyle and Tweek – to ask, 'He wouldn't really _kill _somebody, would he?'

'It wouldn't be terribly out of character if he did, would it?' Kyle replied. He paused, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and flicked his tongue experimentally over his lower lip. 'Goddammit,' he muttered, '"_terribly_ out of character"? I'm using limey adjectives, Stan! I'm _buying into_ this stupid game! We need to get outta here.'

'Ngh!' Tweek squeaked. 'It's gonna be me, I just know it! Ngh…I don't wanna die, you guys! I'm too young!'

'Shut up, Tweek,' Stan commanded, 'you're not gonna die. We just need to stick around until he's got it…out of his system, or something.'

'I am _not _sticking around!' Kyle hissed, lowering his voice as Cartman strolled by. 'You heard him Stan, he's totally got it in for me!'

'Come on dude,' he cajoled, 'he may be irreversibly mentally damaged, but he's not _completely_ insane. Besides, he seems to be really into this. Maybe we should just humour him.'

'_Why?_'

''Cause he's our friend.'

'No he isn't.'

'He sort of is.'

'No he isn't.'

'He's a friendly acquaintance.'

'No he isn't.'

'He's got a gun.'

'Point.' Kyle sighed, and watched Cartman as he walked through his audience like a retarded farmer tending to his chickens, ushering them around the room until they were positioned as he liked them. 'Jesus Christ, Stan. If he kills me, please hide my nudie mags before my mom finds them.'

'Your mom's nudie mags are better, anyway.'

'Aw, dude—'

''Scuse meh,' said Cartman, nudging past them and clearing his throat in a genteel way, 'I hate to inform you, gentlemen, but what we've got here is a _conversation_.'

Kyle glared at him. 'So?'

He scoffed. 'Heh, "_so_"? The Rules of Soiree say that anything under two minutes constitutes mingling, and anything over falls into uncomfortable _chit-chat_ territory. Beyond that, and you're in the realms of _conversation_. You don't want to ruin my kickass soiree with ugly conversation, do you?'

Stan sighed. 'Fine. I'll mingle.' He shot Kyle a final encouraging look.

Cartman nodded happily. 'Damn right you will, Stanley. You mingle with Token and the burn victim, I think you'll get on like a house on fire.' He giggled softly to himself, and added, '_No pun intended_. And Tweek, why don't you have a chit-chat with Buttlord and the hippy? There you go. And _Kahl_—'

'Fatboy.'

He paused, and shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he continued as if nothing had happened: 'Little _Kahl _can go mingle in the corner with Artemis Clyde frog.'

Kyle gave him a dead look. 'You want me to stand on my own?'

'_No_, I want you to mingle with Artemis Clyde.' As Kyle reluctantly obeyed, Cartman – not quite under his breath – added, 'And when the time comes, I shall truly enjoy killing you.'

Kyle wheeled around. 'What?!'

'Nothing,' he insisted, in a suspiciously innocent sing-song voice.

'You just said – you just said—'

He held up his chubby hands in a false display of innocence. 'I said nothing, Jewface!'

'You said that when the time comes, you'll truly enjoy killing me!'

He gave a short laugh. 'No I didn't, you guys. Uh – I said – I said that when the time comes, I shall truly enjoy…_filling _you.'

Kyle didn't react.

'_Filling_ you,' Cartman repeated.

'Filling me.'

'Yes.'

'_Filling _me, Cartman.'

Eric realised he may have just told one of his weaker lies. 'Uh – filling you with _joy _Kahl, Jesus! Joy and candy and other gay crap! For the love of the slaughtered Christ child, Kahl. Goddammit…'

While Kyle received suspiciously off-colour propositions from the party host, Wendy, breaking the conversational edict that governed her, turned to Stan, Bebe and Token. She whispered, 'Guys, I can't stay here. I have whales to save.'

'…_hospital_…'

'Silence, Bebe.'

'Well I'm not happy about it, either,' said Stan, 'but what choice do we have? The door's locked and we're snowed in.'

Token began, 'We could always hit him with something…', but Wendy silenced him with a scowl.

'Violence,' she informed him primly, 'is never the answer.'

Bebe muttered something under her breath that may or may not have been "except when bear mace is involved".

'Shut up, Bebe.'

'Ok ok,' Stan interrupted, waving them into silence, 'let's just stick around and get this over with. If he's playing the real rules of a murder-mystery party, he's gonna have to tell someone they're the murderer. Whoever that person is should just tell the others; we all _pretend_ to guess and then we go home.'

'So you _don't _think he'll kill somebody?' asked Wendy.

'Course not.'

'Oh good. Stan?'

'Yeah?'

'Any idea why he has a machete tucked in his dressing gown?'


	5. v: Death O'Clock

**A/N: **Dear readers, sorry this update has been such a long time coming but I've been incredibly busy. Hope to do better in the future . Thanks for the reads, and especially thanks for the reviews! I've made this chapter a little longer in a feeble effort to appease you. :)

**CHAPTER FIVE: ****Death o'Clock**

All conversation was interrupted by the delicate clapping of Cartman's hands. A crowd of weary faces turned to him as he climbed aboard Kenny's corpse, waving his hands primly to attract their attention.

'Ok, you gahs, we all know why you're here.' Much glaring occurred, all of it in his direction. Cartman ignored it, and concluded: 'My aggressive sexual magnetism. Now—'

'What?!' Kyle spluttered, unable to absorb the ghastly images this statement had presented.

'_Don'tinterruptmeKahl! _Now, for this stage of the game, I've divided you into two groups – the Jews, and the non-Jews.'

'What?!' Kyle repeated, choking his indignation. 'That's not fair!'

'Hey, it's not like you're not the only one!'

Kyle looked down at his feet. Artemis Clyde frog was slumped across them.

Voice radiating considerable disbelief, he demanded, 'Artemis Clyde frog's a _Jew_?!'

'You're damn right he is,' Cartman replied, a touch of loathing present in his voice. 'I can tell you, it can get real difficult to live with sometimes – he's _shalom_ing all over the place. You've got to have pity for that kind of behaviour.'

'Oh my god_._'

Cartman just looked pleased with himself, ignoring the horrified reactions inspired by his increasingly un-PC behaviour. Although, on reflection, shooting your best friend in the face was pretty much as politically incorrect as you could get.

'Now,' he continued, once the silence had returned, 'everyone's in this room and all the doors are locked. Pretty soon, one of you _will_ die.' He flashed a charismatic grin, adding, 'And if you're lucky, Token, it might not even be you!'

'Yeah – ok,' Stan said, eyeing the machete tucked in his host's dressing gown, 'but – I mean, no one's _actually _going to die, right Cartman?'

Cartman continued to smile, though his brow creased slightly in incomprehension. 'Why, of course they are Stan – or what the hell would be the point in that?'

'But – I mean, no one's _actually _going to die,' Stan insisted, in a prime example of wishful thinking.

'Uh, yes they _are_, Stanley.'

'But they're not _really_.'

'I'm pretty sure they _are_, you guys.'

'Well – Jesus Christ, Cartman, you can't do that!'

'Sure I can! Now shut up, it's almost time.'

'What time?'

'Murder time!' His grin broadened as he stepped off Kenny's body, circulating through the crowds like a bad smell. 'Death o'clock! Die AM; a quarter past dead.' He took a seat in the centre of the room, and finished: 'Discuss.'

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Then Kyle began, 'Jesus Christ, dude—'

'WITHIN YOUR GROUPS, KAHL!'

'_Ugh!_'

--

It wasn't a rare thing for Wendy Testaburger to wish she lived elsewhere. A girl of her age, ambition of abilities wasn't meant for small-town life, unless at the expense of some divine joke (which, all things considered, wasn't that unlikely). But perhaps it could be argued that South Park had made her who she was today: that it's twisted, closed-off mindset had caused her to rebel; that its spanktardic twists and turns had made her more open-minded and emotionally developed, setting her on the track of an amazing and far-reaching life that she was prepared to view with eyes and mind wide open.

Or perhaps it had warped her brain to such a hideous extent that she wanted nothing more than to leap at Eric Cartman, suck at his mouth until he turned blue in the face and then bear mace everyone in the room until their eyes bled.

Who could say?

'This town,' she growled, more to herself than her companions, 'is pushing me over the edge.'

--

Ten minutes later, Cartman's gleeful demeanour still hadn't slipped. He skipped as lithely as his fat ass could manage – surprisingly lithely, as it turned out – as he set up a long table in the centre of the room, placing around it chairs for eight people. Wendy frowned at the thought: ten people at the party (eleven if you included Artemis Clyde Frog), and three missing seats? As the concerned murmur of strained conversation continued around her, she grabbed Eric's arm as he skipped by, stopping him in his tracks.

'Fat boy,' she growled, in a low voice.

'Lesbian,' he replied cheerfully. 'Not planning on begging for your freedom, are you?'

She ignored that; the thought of begging him was far too sickening. 'What's with the seating arrangements? Or have you just forgotten how to count?'

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'I don't know what you're talking about, ho. Eight seats, eight guests.'

'There's _eleven_.'

'Kenny's kinda dead,' he reminded her, diplomatically. 'But if you really want, we can take advantage of the rigor mortis and prop him in a seated position, manipulating his mouth with a system of levers and twigs and—'

'_Ten_, then.'

'Pip and Butters count as staff, and accordingly aren't permitted to sit on the furnishings. Just like black people in the '50s.'

'Asshole.'

'Prostitute.'

'You don't even know what you're doing, do you?' she challenged, glaring into his eyes. 'You're just making this up as you go along!'

'Nuh-uh,' said Cartman, façade beginning to slip slightly. 'I'm totally in control. Bitch. You'll see!'

'So, what, someone in here's _seriously _going to die, is that what you're telling me?'

'…Yes…'

'And we're _seriously_ not going to know it was you?'

'Yes! Now sit down and shut up. Stupid ho.' He glanced briefly downwards, and added, 'And you might wanna let go of my arm now.'

'I – nggh!' Wendy quickly released his arm, shaking her hand hysterically as if it was alight. Cartman surveyed her quizzically for a moment, as if offended by the stupidity of her overreaction, before skipping lithely away.

Wendy's face burned.

He looked damn good in a monocle.

--

'Ok, o-k everyone!' Eric clapped his hands to reclaim their attention, though the move was unnecessary: all eyes had been glued cautiously to him for the past fifteen minutes, though occasionally they found the time to glance at the rat-eaten form of Kenny. And then very quickly back again. ''K, I hope that by now you've had enough time to get to know each other and come to terms with the horror that lies ahead.'

'I hate you.'

'Love you too, Kahl. And I hope you've all decided who's going to be the first to die, as it'll probably prepare you for the deep shock and emotional trauma that's in store. Anyone think they know whodunit yet?'

'I hate you.'

'And I'm wanting your hot body right now too, Kahl. 'K! Well, if you'd all like to take a seat at the dining table, and we'll begin the meal!'

Awkward shuffling ensued, and the assembled kids took their seats (aside from Pip and Butters, whose shivering leather-clad forms flanked Cartman's seat). Wendy made a point of sitting as far away from Eric as possible, and was privately disappointed when he didn't notice this.

'And help yourself to condoms,' the host added, gesturing to the complimentary foil packets that lined the table. He cleared his throat, surveying his assembly with serious eyes, and spoke once more: 'Death is that most serious of issues, ladies and gentlemen and Jews. It will one day come to us all: some sooner than others, some more painful than others, some more long and drawn-out than others; some will be labouring for months, perhaps years, in a decrepit and crusty pee-soaked hospital bed, burbling incoherently to the patronising, burdened faces of those you once loved as they smile weakly, desperate to cloak their wish for you to die, just die, die and put them out of their misery, just die, in your sleep, silently, with no hassle, just die. _Just_ _die_.'

He was met by an incredible, wide-eyed silence. Tweek screamed.

'With that in mind,' Eric continued, 'who is going to meet their dreadful end today? Let's go around the table, shall we…?

'Kahl Broflovski, sat to my left. Sonovabitch smartass Jew, potentially harbouring depraved and lustful feelings for…well, yours truly.'

'What—?!'

'_Don'tinterruptmeKahl!_ Or will it be his all-too faithful companion: the emotionally dense gay emo faggot, Stanley Marsh? Or, perhaps, our expendable ethnic member of the party, Token Black?'

'Hey—!'

'Or will it be the…partially bear maced token female of the party, Bebe Stevens? Or, perhaps, her outspoken hippy friend Wendy Testaburger, the giant penis monster?'

'I HAVE _NOT_ GOT A PENIS!!'

'Or maybe the uncomfortably jittery paranoid-delusional—'

'_Ngh!_'

'—rampantly homosexual Tweek Tweak? Or even my very own best friend, the shifty-eyed Jew Artemis Clyde Frog? Or will it be my own limey butler bitches, Butters Scotch and Pip Pirrup?'

'Uh, Eric, I'm n-not actually British, y'know—'

'Shut up, Butters.'

'Yes sir.'

Cartman sat back in his seat, surveying them all with a look of smug satisfaction and intellectual superiority. 'As it stands, none of you are yet the victims of pre-planned homicide. Which means the only other person it could be is…me!'

And with that, he slumped back in his seat; dead.


End file.
